


As Good As I Once Was

by DaughterofElros



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Five Years On
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-26
Updated: 2013-04-26
Packaged: 2017-12-09 13:45:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/774885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaughterofElros/pseuds/DaughterofElros
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean runs into  to a familiar face in a diner in Indiana. Krissy has always known what she wants, and is insistent enough to get it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As Good As I Once Was

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to FrolickingDirtChild for the beta!

Dean is sitting alone at a booth in the diner, digging into the slice of apple pie he’s ordered. It’s become sort of his little ritual, every time they pull into a new town; he leaves Sam to the papers and the sulking and heads out to get his patriotism on. The way he figures it, the only thing more American than apple pie is American whiskey. Every town, no matter how crappy, has at least one of the two. It catches up faster with him these days, if he’s not careful. Sam nags him about how it isn’t healthy, especially now that he’s closer to 40 than 30, but he’ll be damned if he’ll give either up. He has very few creature comforts and little enough to show for the years he’s lived and the number of times he’s saved the world, so the way he figures it, he deserves his goddamned pie.

“Well, Dean Winchester. As I live and breathe.” Someone is swooping in, dropping into the booth across from him, and his reaction in pure reflex—his gun is in his hand before you could say blink.

The speaker is a girl, a damn pretty one, with curves in all the right places, and clothes that fit well enough to show them all off. She’s got dark hair, the kind that a man wants to get his hands tangled up in, and devilish smile that suggests she’s aware of how appealingly the whole package works together. And she knows who he is, which makes him distrust her instantly. Not that he doesn’t appreciate her appeal. He can multitask.

Then he notices the spot beneath her left eye—a mole, or a beauty mark, or whatever they call it. He narrows his eyes.

“Krissy?”

“So you _do_ remember me.” She grins easily, and the easy confidence of it makes her look all the more attractive. Dean is having a little bit of trouble reconciling the women in front of him with the image of the fourteen-year-old girl he met a few years ago. He does some quick math, trying to figure out if the thoughts in that part of his brain are even legal. They’re sure as hell not moral, but that’s a different matter. Five years ago, he thinks. Five years since that little spitfire of a girl conned him into taking her along on a hunt to save her father (and Sam in the process) and ended up saving all of their skins when they got their asses handed to them by a pair of Vetala. Four years since he left her and that little group of baby hunters to fend for themselves in some suburban paradise.

Of course he remembered her. She’d reminded him so much of himself at that age, and of Sam, too. She was smart—not just book smart, but street smart as well, cunning, clever, and a surprisingly convincing actress. The thought of her becoming a hunter ate at him. She’d be a good one, he was sure, but the idea of her growing up in the life, getting killed young, all that potential being snuffed out without a thought set his teeth on edge. He’d told her father to get out of the life. Practically demanded it, in fact. But that hadn’t worked out. He was never sure what happened to her, and on the nights when he lay awake, unable to sleep, with the images of his regrets running though his mind—Jo, Ellen, Bobby, Lisa, Ben, Amy, Dad, the distraught faces of the last few victims in the last few cases they had worked… Krissy was one of the ones that had stuck with him, that he had kept thinking about once he and Sam had moved on. Now here she was, sitting across from him in a booth in a diner in Clear Creek, Indiana.

“I took your advice, by the way.” She announced, grabbing the unused silverware roll and extracting a fork to dig out a bite of his pie. Oddly, he didn’t mind. Much. “I went to college. Well, I’m going to college. Present tense.”

“Oh yeah?” Dean feels uncommonly pleased about that. That he’d made a difference in some kid’s life. “That’s great.”

“I still hunt, though.” She tells him, and his happiness drains away.

“Why?” he demands roughly. “You swore your weren’t going to go looking for hunts. So you’d be safe. What happened?”

She fixes him with a look that’s wise beyond her years. It’s the look of a hunter, and Dean realizes that she had that look even back when he first met her as a little girl.

“There’s no such thing as safe,” she says derisively. “Once you know what’s out there, you understand that not knowing doesn’t make you _safe;_ it just makes you vulnerable. We tried it for a couple of years—staying out of the life, not hunting, but we got attacked by a Strix on a camping trip, and were so rusty that we almost didn’t survive. Aidan was in the hospital for two weeks, and I had to have thirty-three stitches. After that, we got back into it. Now, I go college to study mythology and folklore, and we get together and hunt during the summers. We decided it was better to stay vigilant.”

“There’s a _world_ of difference between being prepared for the dark and nasties and going and seeking them out on their own turf,” he chastises her. She shrugs.

“You do it.” It’s pretty hard to argue with that. Because the truth is, he’s lost damn near everything, most things twice, and he’s had the best reasons to quit time and again, but it’s never stuck. He’s always come back to hunting. It’s in his blood, and he can’t leave it behind. The thing is, though, that he knows how screwed up he is. How much of a lost cause he is. He’d wanted something different for her.

“You’re worried about me, aren’t you?” her voice breaks into his thoughts. “That’s sweet. Let me show you something though.” She stands, expects him to follow him. He shoves the last bite of pie in his mouth and tosses a five down on the table so the waitress doesn’t think he’s walking out on the bill.

Out in the parking lot, she stops beside a Mercury Lynx that’s older than she is by at least half a decade. Dean’s impressed. You don’t see many of those any more, or people who are willing to drive them.

“Check it out.” She tells him, popping open the hatch and pulling up the hidden floor panel to reveal a fairly impressive arsenal. There are a few things he would have moved around a bit, made a bit more accessible, but overall, it was a good set-up. He almost comments on it, but she’s already darted off. He closes the hatch and steps around the car in time to see her remove the inner panel from the driver’s side door, revealing a secondary stash of weapons. He has to admit that he’s impressed. He’s never thought of putting a weapons cache in the door. It’s clever and convenient, and it grates at his nerves that she thought of it. Not just because she’s a girl with barely a shred of his hunting experience, but because she’s not supposed to be a hunter at all. Still, he’s not going to lie. It’s clever, and he tells her so, albeit a little grudgingly. She grins.

“I know what I’m doing,” she tells him, with a cocky grin that reminds him of himself at her age.

“I can, uh, see that,” he says.

“So.” She leans back against the car. “What are you hunting? Is Sam with you?”

“He is. He’s, uh, back at the motel. Going over some paperwork for a case involving some sort of Voldemort creature.”

“A Lich?” she asks, surprising him again. Little girl knows her monsters. It had taken him and Sammy a good six hours of digging to come up with a name for the damned thing.

“Yeah. You know something about them?”

“A little. I’ve got some info on them back at my apartment that you’re welcome to look through. It’s less than five minutes away. I’ll lead.”

Once again, Dean finds himself following this blast from his past. Grumbling to himself he jogs to the Impala and starts her up, comforted by the purr of her engine as he follows the Lynx’s taillights out of the parking lot. A couple minutes later they’re pulling up along a weed-choked gravel drive that leads to a tiny white clapboard house. There’s a porch light on, but it doesn’t illuminate all that far. Krissy slams the door of her car and bounds up the steps. Dean follows a bit more slowly, assessing the surroundings.

“There’s a Devil’s Trap painted under the porch boards, and I cut a groove under the door sill to install and iron bar and a line of salt across the entrance. There’s a protection rune carved into the door handle as well. It’s safe enough.”

“I wasn’t—“ he starts to protest.

“You were. It’s alright though.” She swings the door open and steps inside. “I’ve been working on a project that I intend to use as my senior thesis. A compilation of various types of creatures from mythologies and folk tales.” She crosses to the dining table, which is littered with stacks of paper and old books. It reminds him of the old days, hunting with Bobby and his stacks and piles of information. “But there are two versions. One for school, with all the sanitized academic analysis and crap, and one that’s actually useful.”

“I’m guessing that version tells you how to gank the bastards?” Dean surmises.

“Exactly. I put together an entry about Lichs a couple months ago. There should be a print-out here.” She rummages through a couple of file folders from one of the stacks. “If you give me an e-mail though, I can forward you the list of references I used too, so that you can check things for yourself.” She hands him a couple sheets of paper, which he folds into the inner pocket in his jacket.

“Thanks for this.”

“It’s my pleasure.” She puts a hand on the sleeve of his jacket. “Really.” He recognizes the look in her eyes. He’s seen it before, on dozens of women in his time. Interest. And intent. He’s always been fine with that look before now. It’s just that it’s been awhile since he’s gotten that look from someone with less than two decades under their belt. And he’s definitely never seen it in the eyes of someone he knew as a kid. Seeing her look at him that way, he suddenly feels the weight of all of his years.

“Krissy…” he says warningly, but she doesn’t seem to take the hint. In fact, she does exactly the opposite, and takes a step closer to him.

“Dean.” The way she says his name, sultry and low, goes right past his mind to other parts of his anatomy. But that doesn’t change the fact that if he doesn’t put a stop to this, he’s a terrible person. Then again, there’s a part of his mind that keeps insisting that she’s not a child anymore, and if he wants proof, he only needs to glance at her rack, so he’s probably already stepped over that proverbial threshold.

He doesn’t move, so she steps closer, her breasts brushing against his arm now, and he has to put some distance between them, or he doesn’t stand a chance of rational thought.

“Krissy… hang on a minute. I’m twice your age. I…”

“I know what I’m doing,” she interrupts him, echoing her words from earlier. She wraps her fingers in his jacket, pulling them together. “And I know what I want,” she breathes, leaning up to press her lips to his.

He tries not to react. He really does. Because it’s wrong and fucked-up, and even if it weren’t, he’s not sure that he can still keep pace with a nineteen-year-old coed. But the heat of her, pressed up against him, all firm body and soft breasts, goes a long way to distracting him from his ideals. He finds himself returning her kiss, tasting the cinnamon from the apple pie on her lips. He savors the taste of her, the feel of her lithe, supple body under his hands, and dares to change the angle of the kiss to take charge.

 She moans in response, and that’s enough the shred what little remnant of self-control he has. He yanks her tight to his body with a growl of frustration. If the little girl wants to play with fire, she’s damn well going to get burned. Her arms have already wound themselves around his neck, so it takes virtually no effort to hoist her up and deposit her on the nearest convenient surface, which happens to be the kitchen counter.

Her hands are pushing at his jacket, and he helps her, shrugging it off even as he assaults her lips again. She’s got his shirt undone and has her hands up underneath his t-shirt, seeking skin and sensation. He gives as good as he gets, tugging her shirt off and dropping it to the floor even as she’s drawing his up over his head. Her hands are on him then, tiny and nearly dainty in their appearance. They certainly don’t feel dainty, however—she touches him like she knows what she wants and isn’t afraid of asking for it. She wraps her legs around his waist, pressing against him in a way that makes his blood run hot with want. Even as she’s doing that, her hands are moving, one reaching up to whisper across his ribcage and glide across his nipple (which he doesn’t recall ever having been as much of an erogenous zone as he’s finding it to be tonight) while the other toys with the waistband of his jeans, dipping teasingly below the fabric and tracing along the line where his hip meets his torso. It’s damned effective, and he doesn’t want to think about where she learned it.

Instead, he thinks about the way she looks, pale skin and black hair and a black bra. It’s practical for the most part, not the shiny, frilly things with butterflies or whatever on them that he’s seen some chicks wear in his day. But the upper part of each cup is made of lace, and he can see the dusky blush of her nipples, sharp with arousal, peeking through the lace, and he’s tempted. He’s going to Hell, but he’s tempted, and hey—it’s not like he hasn’t been to Hell before. He cups her tits in his hands, feeling the fullness of them. He’s heard people compare breasts to fruit like melons or oranges or something. That’s bullshit, because teasing your fingers across a cantaloupe doesn’t make women moan or sigh with pleasure, like Krissy is doing now.

He can tell that she’s expecting him to free her from the bra, toss it away like the rest of their clothing. But he’s not an eighteen-year-old anymore (not by a long shot, he has to admit to himself) and he’s learned to appreciate the sight of a woman in lingerie instead of just racing to get her naked. So he defies expectations by trailing his way down to her shoulder, mouthing kisses across her skin until he reaches her nipple and grazes his teeth across it through the lace, making her gasp at the sensation overload. He does it a few more times before directing his attention to the other one, enjoying her reactions immensely. He’s hard now, achingly so, and part of him wants to strip them both and bury himself in her, fast and rough and delicious. He knows she can take it—wants it in fact, is literally begging him for it, murmuring, “God! Dean, just fuck me already!” as an impassioned plea in his ear. But he’s got his pride, and he’s got skills, and since he’s already damned for doing this in the first place, the least he can do is show her what hotshot college boys and fumbling teenage crushes haven’t had the time to learn.

She’s damned determined to make sure he’s not going to make it though. She has his belt unbuckled and her distractingly competent hand is stroking him through his charcoal gray boxer briefs so effectively that the prospect of lasting is far from certain. He grabs her hand, guides it away, and steals another brutal, sizzling kiss.

“Bed.” He growls against her mouth, and she jerks her head toward the doorway on the other side of the tiny kitchen.

“Through there.”

He carries her, not because he doesn’t think she can walk the ten steps on her own, but because it turns him on to have her pressed against him, delicious friction in all the right places and mouths fused together, ramping up the passion and need between them. He deposits her on the bed, hardly sparing a glance at the rumpled quilt or the bare walls. The bed frame looks solid enough, and that’s pretty much all the detail he needs.

She shimmies out of her boots and jeans, and he does the same, appreciating the directness of the approach. She unhooks the bra and tosses it away as well. He would have had her keep it on a few moments longer, but he’s not about to complain about this image either. Her breasts are round and full and real, which is something he’s come to appreciate even more as he’s matured. Fake tits are fine to stare at in a magazine, but he’d rather have the real thing in his hands.

He leans in to her, nudging his knee between her thighs to balance, and cups her breasts. His hands are calloused and scarred, indicative of the hard-knock life he’s lived in the best of times, but he knows how to use that to his advantage, teasing over tightly-drawn nipples and skimming along the curve of her breast, using the texture of his battle-scarred hands to enhance her pleasure. She meets his eye defiantly, daring him on, but her lower lip is caught between her teeth and her breath comes in aroused, uneven bursts. He rolls one sensitive nipple between his fingers and grins when her eyes close and her lips part in a wordless cry, savoring the dual sensations of pleasure and pain. He lowers his mouth to her breast, drawing the pert nipple between his lips, laving at it with tongue to both soothe and excite. She murmurs his name deep and low when he turns his attention to her other breast and cards her fingers through his hair, urging him on.

“Dean, please!” she gasps, and the raw need in her voice makes his cock twitch and leak.

He pushes her back on the bed, enjoying the view of her spread out before him, wearing nothing but a pair of dark blue panties. He likes the fact that her lingerie didn’t match, takes a visceral pleasure in the fact that she didn’t plan for anyone to see her naked when she got up this morning, because it means that whoever else she’s been with, today it’s only him.

She expects him to rise over her, press her into the bed and fuck her thoroughly, and he has every intention of doing it. But first, he sinks to his knees and pushes her thighs farther apart with steady hands.

“Dean…” she pleads, reaching to tug him forward. He brushes her hands away, pins her wrists at her sides.

“Not yet.” He tells her seriously, and she rolls her eyes in response.

“Seriously, Old Man…” she begins, and trails off into a gasp when he lowers his head and nips lightly at the inside of her thigh. He teases his way to her center, alternating between her legs until he has nowhere left to go but where she’s aching for him. He presses a kiss atop the scrap of fabric, uses his tongue and teeth to drag it over her clit and is rewarded with her low, keening moan. She’s wet for him; he can scent her arousal and sense the dampness of her panties. He knows she needs more, needs his mouth or his cock, or just _anything_ , so he appeases her by tugging the panties down her slim, muscled legs and dropping them to the floor.

He meets her eye as he strokes himself lightly, still through his boxers, and lowers himself back between her legs. He’s still teasing her—teasing them both really, and so he draws the torturous pleasure out further, letting his fingers skim down one slender leg and over her hip until they’re splayed across her belly before he allows his thumb—and only his thumb—to slide between her folds, gathering the slickness of her arousal and dragging it back up to circle her clit. He teases her that way for a few moments, studying the way that her body responds before he stops and brings his thumb to his mouth, drawing it between his lips, and makes a show of licking it clean. And it’s not exactly that he adores the taste of pussy, but he likes seeing the way that women respond to that trick—the way they look at him like Krissy is looking at him now, with this wild, astonished, turned-on look, pupils blown wide, begging to be fucked.

“Goddamn.” She murmurs, and he flashes her a cocky grin. _That’s_ the effect he’s going for, and he’s not remotely finished.

“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet,” he promises her, bending down to let his tongue lap at her clit. He doesn’t waste much time teasing now. He’s methodical and deliberate, letting the way she reacts drive his actions, listening for her cries of “Yes. There,” and “Yesyesthere—don’t stop!” He works her with his tongue until she comes with a wordless cry, her hips bucking and her legs tightening around him. He slows his pace as she comes down from it, until he’s barely moving against her. He lets her catch her breath and begin to relax for just a second before he begins teasing at her again, ramping up the arousal once more and driving her hard until he forces her over the peak again. She shudders around him, exhausted from two powerful orgasms, and he decides that he won’t force her to a third just yet. Instead, he laps at her with long, slow strokes until her hips start to cant up to him again, and when he judges that she’s at the point for it, he stops, wipes the slickness from his chin, and asks her, “Are you ready?”

“Hell, yes,” she says decisively, if a little dazed.

Dean reaches for his jeans, searching out his wallet and the condom that he always keeps stocked there, just in case. He rolls it on with a practiced hand, a ritual that he’s performed more times even than he’s exorcised demons.

He presses against her entrance, lining himself up, giving them both another half-second of tension before he eases into her. She’s tight, because there’s been no preparation apart from his tongue on her, but she’s so wet for him that he glides right in. He’s prepared to wait for her, give her a moment to adjust, but she doesn’t need it. She’s demanding more from him the moment he stills, urging him on and insisting that she wants it harder, faster, deeper. He obliges her, picking up the pace, shifting the angle until he’s got her screaming out satisfaction with every thrust, a litany of “yesyesyesohgodyesdon’tstop” that eventually blends into wordless euphoric cries. Her blunted nails are digging into his skin everywhere she reaches for him, his shoulder and his back and even his ass. He hisses at the sting and feels it coil within him, adding to the pleasure.

He tells himself that he’s going to fuck her into one more orgasm before he finishes himself, but he struggles to hang on long enough. She falls apart beneath him finally, head thrown back, her body going taught as she clenches his shoulder and he follows her a second later, a few thrusts and then a rush of release that has him collapsing atop her.

They lie together, panting and still entwined while sweat cools on their skin. He’s still inside her, and there was a time when he could have waited there a few minutes and been good to go again, but age is beginning to catch up with him, and though he hasn’t ever admitted it aloud, there are just some things he can’t do anymore. Or at least, some things that he can’t do as often. Or without feeling it for three days after.

But as Krissy stretches beneath him, her black hair tousled across the bed, and murmurs something breathless into his chest about coming back anytime to do “research,” he grins in satisfaction and thinks that dammit, he’s as good once as he ever was.

 


End file.
